


dreams like ships lost at sea

by SearchingforSerendipity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ghosts, Multi, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:50:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every sailor knows stories of ship-wraiths, whole crews of dead men prowling the seas.  The restless drowned, they are called, the spirits of the ones that dare sail in the dark and know the ways of shore and waves better than anyone.  </p><p> It is said of some their loyalty is the only part of them not washed away, and their purpose turns them into terrible guardians in the shadows of shadows. </p><p> </p><p>  <em><em>Seaworth<em></em></em></em> is a heavy name, heavy enough to drown in. Davos does. And then he sails again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dreams like ships lost at sea

 

 

In the end, death comes to him underwater: fire-tinted waters, a snagged feet, the burning of empty lungs. It hurts, of course it hurts. Even after he is sunk and cold it hurts still. That is the first sign. That is the only way it could have gone.

The second one is when what is left of him floats, lighter than a feather, lighter than air, to a spear of rock in the middle of the Bay. The sun seeps through him but doesn't touch his skin. He feels nothing, not the wind nor the sand nor his own flesh. Grief is his only companion, and despair the rhythm that thumps in place of his heart, tatum tatum tatum. His chest is still with all the silence of a watery grave. He prays and his prayers are nothing, less than nothing.

He tries to drown himself, eventually. When the body he had believed (had wanted to believe) was flesh turns to foam and foam to water, he has to concede to the truth of it.

His service has ended. His watch has just began.

  
-

 

Maester Cressen had gone to his death believing Seaworth was the name Davos had chosen for himself, to go with the knighthood and the family keep and the stumps. And in a way that was right, because it was only then that he had accepted it as his own.

But only highborn and old men get to forget that the worth of the sea has to be won, and the sea has a yaw of making sure its bets are paid. 

 

-

 

Because she lives and he does not, and because there are shadows no fire can cast light upon, Lady Melisandre nearly steps back when she sees him. She does not stagger, he will give her that, but only that.

"Ser Davos."

"Lady Melisandre".

"The flames were unclear on the matter of your demise, but I dared not give the King false hope. He should be glad of your return."

"I am not returning." It was a hard choice to make, but he thinks Stannis would understand. He, more than any other, would accept that the dead have duties of their own to keep. "And neither are my sons, if you are wondering about that. " He had searched water and earth and the depths in between, but only ash and fishfood remained of his boys. For all they had his name they were knight's sons, not children of the sea, and if simple pledges from knights to kings could defy death the world would be greatly different. 

He reminds himself of that now, staring the Red Woman in the face. She must know he is not as he was, and in the corner of his eye the flames flicker in the brazier. It is no bother to call the water in the air around himself, creating a shield of sizzling smoke. A salt-smelling breeze and the embers smolder and die.

"You are truly his man." She says, voice more a breath than a murmur. Outside, a gull cries out.

"As a man I was his." He corrects. "As a boy I was my captain's. As a wraith I am the sea's." The fire flickers in the grate, dies out, and her eyes dart to watch the last of the light. "And the sea is mine."

He sees her eyes widen, plain brown behind the red, a moment before darkness settles over the room and the shadows eat the last of the light.

 

-

 

Every sailor knows stories of ship-wraiths, whole crews of dead men prowling the seas. The restless drowned, they are called, the spirits of the ones that dare sail in the dark and know the ways of shore and waves better than anyone. Usually pirates, the unlawful scum of the ocean. They are the ones who love it better. 

There are words to be spoken, not powerful in themselves but simply for their purpose, when one first joins crew with one of those vessels, crueler words when the first kill is done. And older ones still for the captains, to be accepted and pledged. _My life to the sea, my heart to the sea, my bones to the sea._ The Iron Islanders aren't the only ones that remember the Old Ways. 

Their wrath is terrible and cold as the deep sea, for they are anchorless and beholden only to themselves, as no man can ever be in life. It is said of some their loyalty is the only part of them not washed away, and their purpose turns them into terrible guardians in the shadows of shadows.

It is said that when all else is nought but salt and brine, memory and flesh and mind, some sailors will continue to follow their captain. If the sea allows it. 

Sometimes it does. The sea judges. It is a cruel mistress and a careful lord, every debt weighted and repaid. It has a long memory and sometimes, rarely, it can be relied upon to have favorites. Sometimes, it gifts power to spoken words, bloodied words.

So they sail. So they die. 

-

 

Cape Wrath is lovely this time of the year, the woods a brown-gold that catches the dusk beautifully, reflecting on the turbulent waters. There was a great storm last sennight, as shown by the driftwoods and sodden leaves all over the beach. The air is fragrant with brine smells, tide smells. 

Two boys play on the buff, splashing ponds and pointing at sardines and eels, weaving crowns of purple and green seaweed for their mother. She accepts with a kiss and a hug, and if her eyes overflow, well, she makes sure to clean them only when they are busy playing in the sand.

"They are wonderful, Marya." he tells her. "Steffon has your dimples and Stanny speaks like you do. You have done wonderfully by them. "

She does not answer, makes no move to show she knows he is there. He thinks perhaps she can not see him because she does not wish to see him, but that would be a lie. He had spent the day around her, his wife and the sons he nearly does not know, the ones that remain. He failed their sons. It is only right that he must suffer penance for it.

"I am sorry. So very, very sorry. I should have been with you, now and before, should have saved them. " He took a shuddering breath. Strange, how air became more of a crutch than a need.

"But you live still. Steffon and Stanny live. They are so lucky to have you. You are lucky to have them. Live well, Marya. Know you husband loved you while he lived and after he died."

He pressed a kiss to her hair. A silent breeze, just a sigh on the wind. She startled, looking around the beach. High pitched laughs chase shrieks from beyond the rocks. She turned around once more so that they were face to face. Straightening her back she returned to the cottage, already yelling after the boys.

 

-

 

The King lay dreaming.

He dreamt of rushing waves, bonfires that ate at the sky and were swallowed by great purple clouds. The world rushed in a cacophony of sea and storm, flapping banners slapped by the wind this way and that. The sun hid before leaden clouds. In the distance flashes of harsh lightening carried their booming in the howling winds. Ships sank soundlessly into silent waves.

The King lay dreaming in his bed in his keep. He dreamed of a shadow who ate light with gaping maws and yielded a sword of fire. The shadow had his face, and his crown, and it was his hands that held the sword. He raised it high above himself, defiant to the last, but nothing could cower the storm and it came ever closer, heavenly fire swelling high above. A bolt of lightning clashed in the water nearby, tore a bubbling hole into the sea itself. The air smelled of burnt living things.

There were no armies, no gods, only a shadow of a man and a storm raging eternal. This near the clouds seemed shaped into the likeness of a dragon, but the shadow who was a man who was a king could see no more because the sky had gathered its forces, one last brilliantly shining spear of light. And the sword was raised and the sky roared and the world stank of ozone when the white, hot light hit the white, hot weapon chasing away the night--.

The king, who was a man, who was a shadow of a man, slept in his bed in his keep in the sea, a dreamed of storms and dragons, and in his dreams no one won and no one lost. In the last gathering gloom before morning he rose, stood in front of his windows - the king's windows were always open now - and listened. The sea spoke for a long time, until dim light came to cast shadows.

If the king had looked behind himself he might have seen a second shadow at his side. He did not turn; it is not the habit of kings to look behind them.

Later but early enough that most still slept, he would hold council with his lords and faithful. The fire zealots will weep and rage at the lack of godly support, the nobles will bicker and conspire. They all to the one whisper at the king's strangeness, that his silences are longer and more attentive, that the chair to his right is ever empty, even as the void left for the priestess scare over and grows afresh. They speak, eyes darting to the farthest corners of the room, ears perking up at the sea-tide heartbeat of the island, about how no sword and no dirk and no arrow touches the king, no fell wind thwarts his ships, no cold breeze douses his fire.

He dreams. When he does not he paces the night away in conversation with the shadows, and if sometimes his squire hear it answer back, well, the king had ever been favored by witchcraft, had he not?

Time passes. Men become more legends than wraiths, sometimes both in this times of winter monsters. The King does face the storms of his dreams, some of them shaped like dragons, others as more mundane foes. Treachery grows thick, fear gorges itself in a years long feast.

Winter passes, spring comes, summer lays camp in the fields and hearts of the living few. Men die, and yes, some kings die with them. Our king, the King, he shines in the dark, perhaps because he lived there for so long. His wins outweighs his losses, until they don't. He never sees the need to guard his own back.

If he had looked behind himself he might have seen a second shadow at his side stretching in the ground. He did not need to do so to know it was there, but he could have.

 

-

 

The sea judges. It is a cruel mistress and a careful lord, every debt weighted and repaid. It has a long memory and sometimes, rarely, it can be relied upon to have favorites. Davos promised himself to the sea, and to a man more storm than king, more king than man. And that man was of iron, made to cleave bones and kingdoms, and so he in turn cleaved his bones and his kingdom in half, burned the Wall and drowned the dead. And he too drowned, to join the dead man's shadow at his hand. 

So they sail, and so they die.

 

 

 


End file.
